Not Always Enough
by SoldierToger
Summary: Friedrich and friends from his squad venture into the Ardennes in the early war, to find the forest may be more dangerous than the Front. SEE THE NOTE IN MY PROFILE REGARDING THIS CHARACTER. STORY TO BE REMOVED SOON.


**Disclaimer**: Ok, once again… I don't own Band of Brothers, blah blah… However, the Germans soldiers (aside from Friedrich) I do.. I made them up, though if their names resemble (or match) any existing persons, I do apologize. I was just looking for some recognizable German names… Nothing too complicated or anything.

**Author's note**: After talking with a friend and checking some sources, I found out that Friedrich's actual name is "Hans Schmidt"; even located it in the credits. However, I prefer to call him Friedrich Enders.. It just feels more fitting to me. (Plus..then there would be THREE Hans in the story, lol). The Friedrich in this story, is a little different from the original/one I used in my first fanfic, Ende des Krieges, mostly concerning the time-setting, though. I wanted him earlier in the war, not just in through 1941…so yeah..sorry I'm blabbing so much!

Oh and once again, this is a straight adaptation from an essay-assignment I wrote for my Rhetoric class.. lol! Just like Ende des Krieges was. Due to the conditions of the assignment, things might be a little inaccurate, but oh well sigh

**Summary: **AU; 2nd fic with the German soldier, Friedrich (from Ende des Krieges). Friedrich and friends from his squad venture into the Ardennes in the early war, to find the forest may be more dangerous than the Front.

**Not Always Enough**

By: SoldierToger/LBM

"Since when do occupational duties mean marching through the snow in the middle of the night?" Heinz complained bitterly as his jackboots crunched through the frozen whiteness of two-night old snow.

"Since they took on the expectation of _relaxation_," his comrade, Unterfeldwebel Hans Otto, replied dully with a touch of annoyance.

Their breath rose in silver-gray puffs from under the small visors of steel helmets; a tri-colored shield emblem of red, white and black stood out brightly on the right side and on the left of the helmets an iron eagle clutched a swastika in its talons. Despite clothe gloves, the wood of their Mauser rifles was still unpleasantly cold in their hands and didn't help Heinz's attitude in the least and he continued to grumble, light blue eyes scanning the dark pines of the Ardennes.

There were seven of them all together, a small squad of German soldiers, including Heinz Kiel, Friedrich Enders, Dieter Amery, Hans Otto, and Hans Dietrich. The rest of their division was located in the city of Sedan near the France-Belgian border, however a few squads and fractions of platoons had strayed to a smaller village on the outskirts and it was here they were headed. A platoon had stumbled across it on the way in the day before and soon after the news of a possible sanctuary spread through the lower ranks; refuge from the company's ominous Hauptmann Schmidt. Prussian born, the man took sick joy in tormenting his soldiers with endless drills and required every man's conduct held to the utmost discipline, whether at the front or behind the lines occupying conquered territory. To those wishing to enjoy the fall of France, it was both ridiculous and intolerable and those who could, made their way to the village in order to escape Hauptmann Schmidt, down a few beers and perhaps meet some women.

Unfortunately, vehicles leaving for the village were too conspicuous so the three mile hike had to be made on foot, much to Hans Dietrich's distress. He was youngest and smallest

of the group at 19 years and only five-foot-five, compared to a 24 year old, six-foot Otto. A farmer's son from Bavaria, he wasn't the bravest but certainly the luckiest having taken a Polish and French bullet to the helmet.

"Th-this is so stupid," Hans stammered, sounding more cold than nervous at the moment. Still, he was edgy; the group had heard wolves not long after setting out maybe an hour ago.

Friedrich chuckled from behind him. "Would you rather hone your parade-march up and down Sedan?" Like Heinz, Friedrich was from America; his family had returned to support the Fatherland in this war. He'd been born and raised in Oregon and was only two-inches shorter than Otto, but with brown hair and eyes—like Dieter—instead of Otto's dirty-blonde mop or Heinz's bleach-blonde locks. Despite the mandatory army hair-cuts—short on the sides, long on top—their hair was as different from each other's as the personalities within the gray-green uniforms.

"Yeah, but at least we could've taken a little _kubelwagen_ or something." Heinz again.

"Horses even," Dieter muttered.

"I thought we already discussed this?" Otto retorted, "They're too noticeable and we'd have to confront _somebody_ in order to get the—"

"Seven soldiers will be missed less than a _kubelwagen_ or seven horses," Friedrich interrupted, summing the explanation up nicely, as usual. All of them were action-men, good at getting the message through via action, but Friedrich was the best when it came to words, especially persuasion. "Come on, we march up and down France and you're complaining about three miles?"

"In a forest at night in the snow, _yes_," Dieter tossed back, but Friedrich only laughed; he had made his point.

"What about those French partisans?" Hans piped up.

"What about 'em? They try to start trouble, we'll just shoot 'em," Heinz replied, dismissing Hans' concern, "They're as pathetic as their army."

The group eased into a comfortable silence then, something they had grown to appreciate and listened to the sounds of the forest, interrupted only by their footsteps and the hollow-metallic clanking of their canteens and entrenching tools. Off in the distance, a wolf howled, but it was far enough away to not even bother little Hans who stayed close to Friedrich while the rest remained in fanned out positions; Heinz in front with Otto close behind, a small gap then Dieter

off to the right, and another small gap separating them from Friedrich and Hans and the two other soldiers from another squad who had decided to tag along, too, lagging in the flank.

"Ok, I have a question then," Hans broke the silence. "Why did we have to stray so far from the road?"

Heinz beat everyone else to the reply. "Because _Captain Otto_ here didn't wanna risk being spotted by any patrols."

"Well, incase you've forgotten, Heinz, it's not like we're _supposed_ to be wandering around out here; being spotted would constitute a 'bad thing'," Dieter smirked. He was shorter than Friedrich by a small bit and had joined the army with Otto whom he'd grown up with in Cologne, Germany.

The blonde German-American only snorted.

Otto grinned, shrugged and nodded, field pack ruffling stiffly on his back as another wolf howl rose onto the frigid air.

"Is it just me or is that wolf getting closer?" Hans inquired timidly.

"What? Afraid of the big bad wolf now?" Heinz jeered.

"More afraid of _de loup garou_ than the French," the boy shot back, attempting to sound tough but while they laughed at the farm-boy's bravado Friedrich had the feeling the statement was only half jest.

"The _what_?" Heinz's brow crinkled.

"It's French: _werewolf_," Friedrich explained patiently for the shorter blonde's sake. As for the rest, he figured they already knew, having lived in such close quarters with France and its language.

"_Oh_," the other snorted scornfully. Heinz only knew English and German and that was all he cared to know. He hated the French with a vengeance—_why_ was beyond them—and as a result seemingly only picked up on that part of his comrade's explanation, not the werewolf half, nor would he had paid any attention to it anyways. And it was just as well; he would've used it as more ammunition to pick on Hans. In America the old folk tales and legends about witches and lycanthropes had largely lost any seriousness. However in places like the European countryside, the stories still clung to some reality and a lonely wolf's howl could still be fancied a bristling demon's bay.

Friedrich judged this belief to be partly true by the silence of his Germany-born comrades, especially Hans who had inched even closer to him, whose eyes now darted nervously from tree to tree under the full moon. Even with the moon's light, a cold fog had settled over the land, choking the forest with mist and shadows. He had to admit it was a bit unnerving so he

made an attempt to strike up another conversation. "I've only heard a few wolves in Oregon," he said, picking his boot up to step over a fallen log laced in icicles. "There aren't that many left in the U.S."

"I've shot at a few myself," Otto offered sincerely with a touch of boastfulness.

"And hit _none_," Dieter added dryly, frowning with annoyance at a low-lying branch in his path laden with snow. He tried to step around it but a lower-level twig managed to snag on his pack and snapped loudly. They all flinched as a pile of heavy white powder plummeted to the ground with Otto simultaneously hurling a small snow-ball at his cursing friend. The ice in it shattered against his helmet, emitting a lonely '_phat_', but before a response could be formed, yet another howl broke from the woods.

This time the hair on the back of their necks rose and fingers gripped reflexively around Mauser frames, Friedrich slinging his slowly off his shoulder.

That one was close, very close.

Even though they'd all stopped at the same time no one wanted to admit they were possibly _scared_ of a pack of wolves, especially Heinz. "Damn mangy mutts," he growled and hoisted the barrel of his rifle up. It cracked painfully in the still air and Friedrich could have sworn he saw the trees tremble with the resonance, carrying the gunshot through the slumbering Ardennes.

"_Dammit_, Heinz!" Otto hissed, falling back into his rank. He rushed up beside him and grabbed the rifle muzzle harshly, nearly yanking it out of his hands, but Heinz held on with sudden defiance. "Do you want us to get caught? Do you know what Herr Schmidt would do? What the Hell's the matter with you? It's a wolf for God's sake!"

Heinz pulled his gun from the man's grip and spat back with, "Fu—", however before he could finish, a sudden yelp, crash and painful outcry interrupted him. All turned to look, adrenaline raising the Mausers the rest of the way to their shoulders and arched fingers over triggers.

Hans was on the ground behind Friedrich where he'd slipped on a patch of ice while hoping over a rock. It hadn't helped that he'd _landed_ on the rock, too. Now his gun lay embedded in the snow and he cradled his left arm with a freshly bleeding hand, looking all the world like a fool in both their eyes and his.

None of them could believe it and they could already hear Hauptmann Schmidt in their heads following the explanation of Private Hans Dietrich's injury; something broken wasn't easy to hide. Heinz's voice wasn't the first to start howling in rage, however, it was one of the new fellows who had come with them. From the rear his unexpected shout began almost abruptly as Hans' yelp except it was preceded and pervaded by a fearsome roar coupled with a shriek, or rather shriek_ing_; they were not happy or for that matter angry, either.

"What the—?" Dieter spun around, eyes lifting from the downed Hans to their other unfortunate comrade.

Heinz was next to comment. "_Holy shi_—"

The soldier was barely visible save for his flailing limbs and boots, kicking and thrashing from beneath a furious mass of horrid black fur. Otto had never seen a wolf so huge and Friedrich didn't think a wolf could _get _that huge. White fangs glistening in the light could be seen tearing at the junction of flesh and clothe marking his throat and chest, but they were becoming an ugly red.

"Hey! Hey!" Friedrich's voice broke through the snarls and screams. He started forward, running towards the man whilst the other unknown soldier looked on in shock. Since when do animals attack a man so savagely? Avoiding the act of merely standing by, Friedrich began to pelt the wolf with whatever came into his hand, throwing whatever he could reach, including his water canteen. He wouldn't shoot, fearing he'd hit the man beneath and he wouldn't need to, either for suddenly the wolf whirled round to face him, leaping off his victim and leaving him to lay squirming in the snow, gurgling red hot liquid. Gore dripped from its maw and it eyed Friedrich murderously. The offending German skid to a halt, slipped from the change in momentum and slid over backwards into the snow. The wolf chose this time to charge and he could only raise a hand in his defense when a shot rang out, followed instantly by more pops.

Friedrich opened his eyes to see nothing of the wolf in front of him. He turned to spot the wolf loping away, the terrain erupting with bullet impacts as Otto and Dieter pulled back their

triggers. It was gone before they got five slugs out, but that satisfied them for now; it was gone. At once the rest of the group was freed from their stupor and Friedrich regained his feet.

Otto and Dieter remained vigilant, Hans lay quietly holding his broken wrist and Heinz was dumb where he stood while Friedrich checked over the fallen. They watched him as he stood up and adjusted his helmet, licking his lips. He looked pale when he turned to speak. "He's dead." Simple words, but they fell on attentive ears.

"Do you think it was rabid?" Otto asked.

"Did you see how big it was?" Hans.

"It was so fast." Otto again.

"No wolf gets that big," Dieter remarked solemnly, mostly to Otto.

"Do you think it was a—?" Hans began, but was cut off.

"_Shut up_, Hans," Heinz snarled, "I don't want to hear anymore cowardly bull outta you!"

"_You_ shut up, Heinz," Friedrich snapped harshly in return, leveling the blonde with one of his rare warning glares before stepping over towards the deceased's partner who stood against a tree, eyes stuck on the torn flesh. Friedrich waved his hand in front of his face and snapped his fingers to get his attention off the carnage. "Hey, you ok?"

The man nodded lightly, breath coming in shallow huffs.

"What happened?" Friedrich breathed incredulously, grabbing one shoulder.

It took him a moment to fully register and process what was being asked of him, but he managed a broken reply after an insistent shake. "I _saw_ it," he began in disbelief, shock evident in his voice as his eyes traveled backwards in time, "It appeared between those trees, getting closer, following him. I-it was like a dream—I-I couldn't _say anything_, it just _came_ and…" Trailing off, he swallowed hard and his eyes came back into focus, searching Friedrich's face for blame. There was none to be found, only concerned sympathy.

"It's all right," Friedrich patted his shoulder and grabbed the material of his uniform to pull him gently away from the tree, but when he turned around to lead him closer to the others, he heard someone shout his name and the swift crunching of snow. Instinct threw himself to the side, reacting as surely as if it had been a thrown grenade, bringing his bayonet up. Something slammed into it and a blood-curdling, unnatural scream tore itself from inhuman jowls. It quickly warped into a raging howl and Friedrich opened eyes he had not even realized he had closed.

The wolf struggled against the end of his Mauser, bloody foaming jaws bearing thick fangs; it _had_ to be rabid.

"Shoot it Friedrich! Shoot it!" Dieter cried as Otto raised his own rifle, hurriedly took sight down the long barrel and fired off a shot.

The beast snarled and its bristling mane of black fur shuddered. Otto's aim wasn't excellent, but it was true enough to put a bullet in the left flank. Now its own blood began to drip from its lips and Friedrich scrambled to get his own finger around the trigger; too late, though. Bellowing in fury, the wolf tore itself away from his bayonet and crumpled into the reddening

snow. It did not stay there long. Burning yellow eyes writhed until they reached the image of one soldier off to the side, mouth agape in horror. As if immortal, it was up again in an instant and cleared the space between itself and the man as a black blur surrounded by bullets ricocheting off partly frozen landscape.

There was anther scream, but this one was cut short and the wolf escaped again into the fog, leaving behind a trail of blood and yet another soldier with his throat ripped out. For a few moments no one dared to move, all ears listening for returning paws, but now the night had returned to emotionless silence save a few childish sobs, courtesy of Hans who still lay where he'd fallen. His wrist had grown stiff and gleaming trails of tears branded his cheeks, young eyes trapped between the torn bodies until Friedrich raised himself to his feet with Otto's help.

"Ok, ok," he began shakily at first then cleared his throat as he retrieved his rifle, avoiding any glance at the newest casualty, "We need to get outta here, now. Otto, pick up Hans. Heinz I want you and your Mauser right up beside them. Dieter, cover the rear; I'll take point. We're heading back to Sedan."

No one offered any objections and even a mute Heinz moved quickly to his assigned position, shouldering his rifle and stooping to lend Hans a hand while Otto glanced at Friedrich. "What about them?" He gestured to the bodies.

"Cover them. We'll have to come back in the morning."

"They won't believe us."

"Let's just get out of here first, Otto." Friedrich never actually looked at him and fell silent afterwards. The sergeant took that as a hint to go take Hans and relieve Heinz of crutch-duty. As soon as he judged all to be ready, Friedrich allowed a curt nod to Dieter and headed out into the fog. Behind them the corpses were already cold under blankets they'd thrown over them.

All kept a wary eye on the trees, but they felt it to be a vain attempt. Unnatural suspicion had crept in on every one of them now, even Heinz, and inside they seemed to succumb to the fact that if the wolf returned, it would come and none of them could stop it.

"It is a werewolf," Hans whimpered beside Otto, who gently shushed the boy but kept his eye on the surrounding forest.

"It's dead, Hans," Otto whispered reassuringly, "I shot it _and_ it impaled itself on Friedrich's bayonet."

"It has to be dead," Heinz insisted, but he sounded more like he was in a daze, his back to his comrades as he was nearly walking sideways to face the wood. But the wolf wouldn't come from there. No, the attack would come from the rear and then against Friedrich Enders.

The five of them hadn't walked for fifteen minutes when Otto stumbled. "Hans?" He inquired with a rough voice, regaining his balance and glancing at the soldier who had suddenly gone rigid in place, head turned back, mouth slightly open. "Hans?"

"W-wolf." He whispered harshly, aghast.

Dieter stopped, frowned and looked back, too. "_Shi—_Friedrich!"

Friedrich turned in time to spot a black beast snap at Dieter, who made a wild jump to the side to avoid it, and then keep coming. Dieter quickly recovered and raised his rifle, the muzzle barking once, but it was a miss and the Bavarian soldier swore terribly as he realized he had run out of ammo, as well. The wolf bypassed Hans and Otto all together and came straight for Friedrich next. His Mauser had been held loosely in his hands, but he hastily lifted it; not to fire—there was no time for that—but as a shield against death as the wolf hurled itself up at his face. He caught a brief glimpse of Hans, horrified and white, but was soon occupied by the realization that the wolf was coming up over his barrier not against it; instantly one hand released its hold, flying up to bury itself in the black fur of the wolf's throat. The other came soon afterwards but he found the wolf's jaws clamped over his forearm now as he toppled over backwards into the snow, the wolf landing on top of him, the rifle landing useless to the side.

Friedrich thought he could vainly hear someone calling his name, but it was lost, replaced by the ripping of clothe, the cracking of bone and the fight for his survival. Desperately he fought to keep it from getting any closer, but the wolf was heavier and stronger than he could ever imagine it being and with all the adrenaline in his system he barely registered the flesh its fangs were ripping to tatters amongst the shredded clothe of his uniform sleeve.

Towards the end, Friedrich met the raging eyes of his attacker and he instantly noted they were not the same. These were a deep red-amber, not the fierce yellow of before and carried a haunting sadness, a grievous pain and unbearable rage. At the same time, its jaws relinquished their grip on his arm and reached for his throat. Only then was the onslaught to be interrupted, by a single rifle shot, louder than any other this night.

The volatile eyes dilated then grew hard, faded, and the wolf fell, convulsing once before laying still and quiet.

Panting, Friedrich swallowed and frantically scrambled away, wincing and then collapsing, as well, his body beginning to relay the messages his torn arm was so vehemently trying to send. Vision clouding, he looked to the dead animal and then to a shocked Heinz, whom triumph was quickly granting a victorious but breathless grin, though terror still attempted to steal the moment away. Dieter and Otto stood not far off, fingers pinning triggers back midway. They quickly released, seeing the wolf down, and came running passed Heinz while Hans leaned tiredly against a tree in the background, frightened, but relieved to see his comrade alive.

"Friedrich, you're going to be all right." That was just like Otto; it's never 'are you ok' just a 'you will be ok' and no buts about it allowed.

The two crouched to either side of him and grabbed for their field-kits and bandages. Friedrich took the time to notice now that his arm was spilling crimson onto the white snow. Dizziness threatened to spill his stomach contents along with it, but he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, preferring simple exhaustion to the draining of post-traumatic shock and blood-loss.

"I got it!" Heinz announced suddenly, though prodded with the end of his bayonet, having walked over to examine the limp black body.

"Shoot it again," Dieter suggested sternly, sparing a dark glance at the beast.

"Just to make sure," Otto agreed with unusual bitterness

"No way; it's dead! Besides this isn't the same one, look," he pointed but no one did, "No other wounds on this one. This isn't the same wolf."

"So? Doesn't mean it won't get up again like the last one," Otto warned.

"Nah, it can't do tha—t"

"_But you _saw_ what happened before!_" Dieter snarled back at the blonde while helping Otto tend to Friedrich's arm. "_Nothing_ now can say it won't again!" The young man was obviously shaken by the night's affairs, but it wasn't paranoia talking and if it was, he wasn't the only one thinking it. He turned away furiously, refusing to look at either Heinz or the wolf now. Two men had already died and Friedrich wasn't out of the woods yet.

"Just shoot it again, Heinz," Friedrich gasped weakly and gave a muffled cry, clinching his eyes shut as the pain in his arm began to escalate near unbearable.

Heinz stiffened indignantly and knelt down next to the beast. "No," he said, straightening his uniform collar and leaning over to examine the wolf's head and chest, searching to see just

where the bullet had entered. "If it were still alive, it would've moved by now. It's dead. You're all just a bunch of school children, scared of werewolves, _hah_! One bullet is…"

It took a moment for all of them to acknowledge the abruptness of the statement ending, but the sounds of a brief scuffle and a wet rattle of a wheeze drew their attention finally. Hans trembled against the tree, stricken by terror, eyes transfixed on the wolf which now held a wide-eyed Heinz's throat and part of his lower mandible, crushed in its jaws; he'd been killed instantly.

Gradually Heinz's rigid body went limp and sluggishly dropped from the lupine's teeth, landing with a final crunch in the snow. With a flick of its ears and a whisk of its tail, the wolf picked itself up and back onto enormous paws. There was no fear, no hurry, no rage. It shook the snow from its ink black pelt as casually as it would on any morning and lifted its head to meet the eyes of each German soldier with its own, betraying a mystical intelligence behind the murderous face. Then it simply bounded away and vanished, swallowed up by the shadows of the Ardennes.

"…Not always enough," Friedrich finished, releasing the breath they'd all been holding.

Otto hoisted his friend to his unstable feet while Dieter went back for Hans and the four of them hobbled on. They headed for the road instead now, fearing that if they continued towards Sedan none of them would make it out.

Alerted by all the gunfire the Wehrmacht division in the city had sent out a patrol. It later found the four of them struggling down the road hounded by a chorus of booming howls mourning the moon and heralding the rise of the sun.

**Author's Note: **Ok, not the usual WWII fanfic, but hey what I can I say. I needed something different for the class (though it is a bit cliché). Also, I'm thinking of writing a little series of fanfics with these characters, so this is just to help me test them out, ja… So, what'd you think?


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